In the light of day, I now know that Vince’s eyes are hazel and he is even more agonizingly beautiful than he was last night. He looked more like a professional today, in his handsome button-down shirt and slim tailored black pants, but there’s still some kind of an edge, maybe it was his sexy aviator sunglasses, maybe it’s just his energy. He’s acting pretty detached, and the combination of that with his current state of handyman shirtlessness is almost unbearable.

I’m glad I decided to just be cool about everything. He has already turned what could have been the worst summer ever into the best, and I don’t want to ruin what we had with angst and questions, like for instance: “Why did you run off all of a sudden last night?” “Do you have a kid?” “Why don’t you want my number?” “How many women does a guy have to have sex with to get to be that good at it?” “Did I satisfy your little revenge fantasy?” “Did any part of what you did to me actually have anything to do with me?”

But I don’t need to know these things at this point. Really. I don’t.

I’m just glad that he came back to fix the drywall. It says a lot about him. Although, I suppose the fact that he punched a wall also said a lot about him, I just couldn’t hear it over the sound of my beating heart and the rush of hormones.

When he comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his abs, he has the strangest look on his face. I wait for him to ask me an important question, because it seems like that’s what he wants. But he doesn’t say anything. He picks up his shirt and puts it on, without buttoning it up.

“Have a seat,” I say, gesturing towards my sofa. I take a seat on it, leaning against the far side and give him plenty of room to sit away from me.

He does.

He sits on the edge of the cushion on the opposite side of the sofa, but he isn’t rigid, his knees are wide apart and he leans forward to rest his elbows on them. He’s so casual and comfortable in his body, it’s one of the sexiest things about him, I think.

That and his mouth and his hands and his butt and his hair and his voice and his eyes and the tattoos and muscles and the way he smells, okay literally everything. Everything. Just everything.

I sigh as I look out the window. “It’s such a beautiful day.”

“Yeah, it is.” He doesn’t make me feel dumb for saying such a simple thing, and I appreciate that. That is one of the many things that makes him a good salesman, I’m sure.

He’s staring at my coffee table.

Oh no.

He’s staring at my notebook. I can’t believe I left it open.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, still looking down at the notebook.

“Uh huh.”

“What exactly did you see in that principal guy? Russell, is it?”

Whew. A non-notebook-related question.

“Oh. Hah. Well, let’s see…”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, I’m just curious.”

You want to know what Sadie sees in him. “Well, it makes more sense in the context of our school.”

His eyes widen. “Oh. Right. He’s the principal at the school you teach at.”

“Yes.”

“So…Wait, do you know Sadie?”

“Nope. The boy she looks after is a little older than my kids.” I know this because Russell chose to tell me about the student, before telling me about this student’s nanny, and then revealing to me that he had fallen in love with her while engaging in a sexual relationship with her (his words!).

“Oh right. Sorry, go on.”

“No, it’s just…I mean, he’s a handsome man and he has this air of power…of sorts. He carries himself a certain way that sort of commands respect. And he’s the king around our school, so when he zeroed in on me as soon as I started there, it was…he can be very intense and persuasive when he wants something. And protective. I guess I needed that when I first moved here.”

He nods, tapping at his chin. “Hunh. Interesting.” I can see him trying to decide if he should keep asking me questions, and to my surprise, he does. “So your last name’s Parks? Nina Parks?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“It’s on the door buzzer.”

“Right…What’s your last name?”

He pauses, before saying: “Devlin.”

“Vince Devlin.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a good name.” Hot. That’s a hot name. “Irish?”

“My Dad’s side, yeah. My mother’s side is French. Vincent was her father’s name.”

“Ah, oui?”

“You speak French?”

“Barely. Only when I’m nervous.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I count, to myself, in French to calm myself down.”

“Does that work?”

“Sometimes. Do you? Speak French?”

“Not really. I did when I was younger, but it just makes me sad now.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, my Mom died when I was fourteen.”

“Oh I’m so sorry.” He’s too far away for me to reach out and touch his knee, but I hold his gaze. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks.” He looks over at the drywall patch.

“Can I ask you something?”

He looks back at me. “Yeah.”

“Do you have a kid?”

He looks so startled that I’d ask that. “What? Oh. No. I had to leave last night because of my little brother. My half-brother, Charlie. He’s eight.”

“Ohhhh.”

“He goes to a private school.”

“Oh. I teach at a public school.” I would tell you which one if you’d ask, but this still isn’t a date, I guess.

“My Dad had a date last night and I forgot that the babysitter had to leave at ten.”

“Oh.”

“I just got too caught up in…you.” He rests his chin in his hand and smiles at me and I die a small death for so many reasons. The smile, the thought of him with his little brother, the unbuttoned shirt…

“I have an appointment, I should probably…”

“Yeah.”

I slowly reach for the notebook to close it, as surreptitiously as possible.

His eyes fall back on the notebook cover. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Yes.”

“You like Joni Mitchell?”

Oh crap, he did see it.

“Um. I was listening to her this morning.” And thinking about you. Why did I have to doodle hearts like a thirteen year-old? Listening to her always makes me feel more bohemian and carefree, and I wrote out: You are in my blood like holy wine, you taste so bitter and so sweet, I could drink a case of you, darlin’, and I would still be on my feet, oh I would still be on my feet…

I can’t look at him, but I know he’s staring at me and smiling. “Do you like Joni Mitchell?”

“I heard her a lot when I was a kid. I like that song.”

Why do I feel like he’s read my diary? Not long ago, he was looking directly at my vagina, but this feels so much more intimate for some reason.

I cover my face with my hands. I feel my cheeks burning up. This is humiliating. “Where’s an Adios Motherfucker when you need one?”

I hear his little laugh, and then feel him move closer to me, his fingers pulling mine from my face. I’m afraid to look at him right now, because if I do I might never want to stop.

He pulls my chin towards him, and I look up into his gold green eyes, and forget about absolutely everything.

He kisses me so tenderly at first. It’s different from last night. He’s not seducing me. He’s letting me know that it’s okay to like him, I think.

As soon as I start kissing him back, he kisses me deeper, and I hear the guttural sound from his throat as I put my hand on his bare chest.

He pulls away. “I have to go,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I have a meeting I can’t be late for.”

“Okay.”

“I mean I really don’t want to go, but I have to go.”

“I know, it’s okay.”

“It is so not okay.” He leans in to kiss me one more time before standing up and buttoning up his shirt.

I get up to help him put the stuff back in the hardware store bag.

“I’m gonna come back and paint that, okay? It’s so unfinished, it’s gonna drive me nuts if we leave it like that.”

“Yeah, I agree. Finish it.”

He tucks in his shirt, pulls up on his belt. He kisses me again when he takes the bag and electric screwdriver kit from me. “Thank you. I’ll call you later—I mean. I’ll come back. Tomorrow evening. No wait, that’s July 4^th, I can’t. Day after tomorrow, late morning. Is that okay?”

“Sure, yes.”

He kisses me one more time before disappearing out my front door, and just like that, I have something to look forward to, something to dread, and about a million butterflies in my stomach.

I still have a smile on my face when my parents call to check in, probably a little bit frantic and wondering why they haven’t gotten even one email from me in a couple of days. I don’t even know how long I’ve just been sitting on my sofa smiling. “Hi,” I say, answering my phone, feeling perfectly ready to tell them that I am no longer engaged to the nice principal that they really wanted me to marry.

They are both exactly as upset as I expected they would be. Not so much because they believed that Russell would be a perfect husband for me, but because I am now “all alone in New York.”

“I’m not alone. I have friends. I’m fine.”

“How can you be fine?” My Mom’s voice is more high-pitched than usual. “You were engaged to him, Sweetheart. You’re in shock.”

“Maybe.”

“Just don’t use those dating apps. Mike Smith’s daughter used one of those apps and ended up dating a sexual predator—this was in Minneapolis. Imagine how many predators live in New York!”

“Dad. I won’t be using dating apps or websites.”

“And don’t go to bars to meet people! Cindy Matthews has a cousin whose daughter met a blind date at a bar in San Diego and he ended up raping her bumhole in an alley.”

“Mom!” Did you just say ‘bumhole?’

“It’s true—they posted about it on Facebook.”

“Oh my God. How awful.”

“Just don’t go out alone at night.”

“Daddy. I’m twenty-seven years old. You have to stop worrying about me.”

“You’re my daughter. I will never stop worrying about you.” His voice catches in his throat. That’s about as emotional as he gets, but I know he feels it.

I get it. I know my Dad is picturing twenty-one year old me curled up in the corner of my closet sobbing and saying that I want to die because my first love broke up with me. He’ll never forget that.

I almost forget it sometimes. I totally forgot about it while Vince was doing amazing things to my body. I started to think about it again this morning when I realized that I could actually like Vince. I started to remember how it felt to be in so much pain from being left by someone that I had loved without reservation. Honestly, it felt kind of good to feel something again. As much as I’d been trying to avoid it for the past six years of my life, it was like being reunited with an old friend.

“Maybe it’s just a phase for Russell. You know. An early mid-life crisis. We should call him. Dad can talk some sense into him.”

“No! God! I don’t want to get back together with Russell. You guys. I wasn’t happy with him.”

“Was he mean to you?”

“No, it wasn’t that, I just…Look, it made sense to be with him when I first moved here, it felt safe and in the context of the school it made sense, but…it’s over. And I’m glad. I’m moving on.”

There is a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Okay. Just don’t move on with an app.”

“I probably definitely won’t. How’s Bun doing?” Change of subject! Bun Affleck is the bunny that I adopted back in Bloomington after he bit a kindergarten student. I couldn’t bring him with me to live in a small apartment, so my parents graciously agreed to look after him when I moved.

“Oh the little dear, he’s very peaceful.”

“You know, Nin, we’re on our way to Florida to meet up with the Robinsons in a couple of days. We could stop by on the way to see you. For a few hours?” My Dad sounds so hopeful.

“Oh that’s a wonderful idea! We’ll just pop over and meet you for a late lunch maybe?”

“No, that’s ridiculous. I mean, I’d love to see you of course, but it’s not worth it for a few hours, and I’m really fine. Really.”

After two more minutes of insisting that I’m fine and trying to get them excited about their trip to Florida, I tell them I have to go.

I don’t tell them that I have to hang up so I can continue thinking about a boy in peace.

I need more hobbies.

Maybe I should get a summer job.

Two days without seeing Vince Devlin.

I touch my fingers to my lips. “How will we survive?”

In some parallel universe, there’s a me who chose to respond to my first broken heart by being courageously reckless and falling in love over and over again, a me who trusted that I didn’t feel so much about my first love that I’d run out of good passionate feelings and had to keep them tucked away for safe-keeping, so that by the time I’m twenty-seven and faced with someone like Vince, I can handle it.

In this one…The world and Brooklyn in particular is an infinitely more sexually-charged and exciting place to live in, now that I know he’s out there in it, but I barely remember how it used to be so easy to breathe or have thoughts that didn’t make my body tingle, before I met him.